Shades of the Past
by Rebo
Summary: Chapter 12 is up. Wolfwood and the Red Man reunite only to realize they have to part again. The Guns wont go away by themselves, but thats why the Priest is back...
1. Shades of the Past

Quick note - This is a first attempt, so feel free to post or email comments.  
I'll decide whether or not to continue based on feedback x_x  
Thanks a ton!  
  
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Dust particles and tiny wood splinters danced in the visible rays of sunlight slanting downward at odd angles through various wooden beams, pews, and several pieces of furniture that hadnt been distinguishable in a number of years. It had been a church, once. Not a very big church, and of modest coffers, but after the Panics and evacuations, it, like so many other structures, was forgotten and left.   
  
The world had changed. Some said for the better, some just didnt say anything at all. None were old enough to remember the start of the Panics, but the children and grandchildren of those who had been around were told and retold about the disasters of Gunsmoke. In time, the tellings of heros in red, holes in the moon, and giant "plants" became stories for village fires on cold nights. As the addage goes, stories have some kind of basis of truth.  
  
This church, like so many others, was a long-standing tribute to the Panics after the Red Man dissapeared. But this place was unique. Sitting square in the middle of the desolate, skeletal ruin of what was once a city of some forgotten name, this church held something precious. It held life. Life, though, in this instance, was of questionable consequence. In all appearances, the place was dead in every sense. Only some geometrical miracle had held the place together for the two hundred some-odd years since it had been razed. But protected the beams and pews, splintered like so many bones of a mutilated animal, formed a cubby that protected an area where the altar had once been. By some grace from above, looters, the weather, storms, and time, had left this small, cavelike corner of the world untouched. In later years, when this area was described, people would say it was a shelter of God. Perhaps it was.  
  
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Darkness swirled behind closed eyelids. The man, he thought he was a man, managed to breath. Even that involunatry action seemed so new, so foreign. He drew breath, and felt muscles that should have atrophed, withered, and dried away; he felt them stretch. A few more breaths of the dust-laden air, and he let the familiarty set in, letting his body remember. At a risk, he allowed his eyes to crack open. Fortunately, the world did not explode into a brillance of sunlight. Instead, he likened the luminance to standing in a room with opaque blinds drawn. He didnt know where the thought came from, but his consciousness was collecting now. It was dim, and he could feel hair in his face, he could feel the wood floor beneath his knees. He was kneeling. He squinting his eyes against the immediate fatigue from their apparently long period of inactivity. After a brief eternity of blinking he managed to lift his neck with a sickening crack. No pain, just a sensation that told him he'd been asleep too long. When had he fallen asleep? Come to think of it, where was he? At an alarming rate, he realized he knew nothing. He took stock for a moment; a hole, it seemed. Wooden planks and pieces of stone debris littered the floor around him. About four feet across, he guestimated. Nothing familiar here, until he saw it. Above him, resting at an angle, was a cross. A large wooden cross acted as a protective roof for his cubby.   
Images flashed through his head. A man in red, himself as a boy, a man in a grey suit holding a metal cross, a blue haired man with a skull on his shoulder, and then the man in grey again. It all happened between blinks, and he squinted and rubbed at his eyes with fumbling hands. Shades of the past, perhaps. He looked himself over. He was apparently well dressed before he fell into his assumed slumber. A faded blue suit eaten away in places, and a hole in the right breast. He shrugged. That action too, seemed distantly familiar. Thoughts began to coalesce into a bit of sense. He didnt know who he was, but for the moment, that wasnt too terribly important. He was hungry, alone, and he needed to get out of this place. He hesitantly moved his legs under him, and moved into a crouch. The pain he expected never came. Instead he slipped into the position easily. Maybe he was flexible and didnt remember. He reached up and put his hands on the rough wood finish of the cross-roof. Hesitantly he pushed against the wood, using his legs to force leverage.  
And then everything went to hell.  
The strong-seeming wood of the cross gave way as if made from ash. The man never hesitated, he dove through the falling splinters and crossed his arms over his face as he landed heavily on a pile of collected rocks that had once been a section of the wall. He had no sooner landed, than the loud creak of boards and crumbling rock reached a creshendo, and came thundering down into his previous sanctuary. He didnt know how he knew to move, but he was thankful for instinct. Carefully he picked his way to the floor, walking on stiff legs and constantly flipping ratty, long hair from his eyes. He shook his head at a mounting headache and briefly made for the largest hole in the wall across the floor. How did he end up in a church? How long had he been asleep? He barely realized he had acted before he froze. He ran his thumb over the featureless silver lighter in his hand, and attempted to look down at the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Whatever calms the nerves, he slipped the lighter back into a pocket and continued.   
First things first, he decided, get out and assess his situation on a slightly larger scale. He had almost climbed the last pew seperating himself from his chosen exit when the legs of the pew gave out on him gave out. He fell forward, but instead of landing on the loose gravel and dust-strewn floor, he landed on something exceptionally hard, and covered with some kind of canvas. He winced, lightly putting a hand to the side of his face and sitting up. Whatever it was, it was half buried under dirt. He set about uncovering the buried treasure, and eventually succeeded. All at once, everything changed. Memories flooded into his thoughts, old instincts raced to the surface, and he realized old habits die hard. The canvas was still in perfect shape, if faded, and the buckle clips still shone without a trace of rust.   
He remembered those last moments, then. Kneeling, asking for more time. Asking to be with - no, he wouldnt delve that far into his thoughts. He reached down and hefted the familiar weight of the Punisher. He had his request granted. He and his closest friend, the Punisher. He didnt know how it happened, or how long he'd been "out", just something else to figure out. He shook his head and looked back toward the makeshift door. Maybe a second chance was his turn to do things right, to do things over. Too many questions, too many shades. He picked his way outside, and managed to squint against the blowing wind of midmorning.   
"Shades of the past," he whispered. He had no idea what to do, so he did what he always did. Nicholas D. Wolfwood picked a direction, and walked. 


	2. Lonely Sand

Note - Well I didnt get many reviews for my first chapter, so I'll see how it goes with the second. X_X I hope that I can do a little better this time. I really appreciate the views and reviews. Keep them coming, and I'll keep writing! LoL, I sincerely hope I can keep the ideas flowing. I like what I have so far....  
  
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Two days. It seemed like two years. But what would he know of time, he'd been dead. Nicholas trudged on, lost in the constant loop of illogical happenings. He was a man of faith, yes, once even known as "Mr. Priest" to someone from a life once lived. However, no amount of faith or judgement passing had ever brought one back from beyond the reaches of the grave. Everyone thought about death, but few had ever lived it, to be ironic about it. It wasnt what he'd expected; no bright lights, no comforting music, no outstretched arms. He didnt even remember what it was like. He'd done his best not to think about it for the two days he'd walked. And he'd tried not to sleep, it did nothing but remind him of the darkness. He kept going, foot over foot, wishing for small things that even surprised him. A sandwich, a smoke, a haircut. He'd run out of the who knew how old cigarettes the previous day, and often found himself reaching into an empty pocket. Fortunately for him, the Punisher wasnt an extra burden, it felt strangely at home rested over his shoulder.   
  
Two days under the twin suns, and Gunsmoke was just as unfriendly as he remembered. He was tired, and still hungry. He had cooked a desert-lizzard dinner from an odd looking horned lizard that he'd caught with his bare hands. He couldnt bring himself to open his only real possession. Breaking the canvas seal on the Punisher meant only one thing; reliving a life and creating new, violent memories. He thought about where he was going, he thought about the desolation, but mostly he thought about why. Why was he revived, for lack of a better term? There had to be a purpose, there had to be some method in the madness that was building at the edges of his sanity. Maybe that red-coated broomhead had something to do with this. Maybe those freaks the Gung-Ho's had a hand in it. He didnt know. The only thing he felt sure about was that if he didnt reach civilization of some kind shortly, his revisit would be remarkably short.   
  
He guessed he was heading south, late in that second day. The suns were on their decent, but still a good hour away from dusk. Nicholas was again swimming in the ocean of thought and possibility, and still no closer to anything resembling a straw to grab at. So lost, was he, that he never even heard the riders approaching. A large, squatty transport rumbled through the loose sand toward him from the west. Eventually he found it in himself to care, and turned to face them, again feeling a nagging itch at the corner of his lips where a cigarette should be. He lowered the Punisher to the ground and leaned on it, dragging a silver crossed-cuffed jacket sleeve across his eyes. The vechicular travellers, four in number, were scraggly at best. The wagon itself was six wheeled, greyed with age, and featureless. Three of the men, all wearing scraps of clothing that looked like the desert sands in the evening, stepped briskly from the crawler.  
"Ho there, good fella. Whats a holy man like you doing fifty iles from anywhere?" the speaker was the largest of the bunch, distinguishable only by that and a pair of overly large goggles resting on his forehead. He scratched a hand across his day-old black stubble, waiting for an answer.  
"I dont really know, actually. Looking for a town, a city, a smoke," Wolfwood shrugged a bit, squinting his right eye against the sun glaring on the side of his face.   
"A city?" the just-less-than-portly man laughed almost to the point of tears before he continued. "Your the first funny one we've come across. You'll do just fine." A slow grin split the sun-baked lips of the man.  
"Do just fine?" Wolfwood cocked a brow behind his considerably long bangs. And then he got it. He chanced a quick look to the crawler, to the fourth occupant. It was an old man, with his hands suspiciously in front of him, remaining obediently silent. Slavers. Even scum like this were still around. A funny thought, considering it could have been yesterday for all Nick knew. "Ah, I see." At the same time Nick knew the outcome of the impending confrontation, an immense wave of sadness washed over him. His one distant hope for this new life, this second chance, was shattered like a window pane. And then another feeling. Nothing. His features relaxed, his shoulders slumped, and the emotion raced away from him like sands pushed by wind.  
The slavers had made their mistake. The saw his shoulders sag, and took it as a sign of resignation. They made a horrible judgement call. They closed in on him all at once, most under the pretense that they could overpower him and toss him in the back with the old man. Wrong. The Punisher whipped up, weightless in a thoughtless hand, and promptly stole away the consciousness of the leftmost slaver; he dropped in a heap. Before eyes could go wide and swears could be recited, the Punisher whipped a tight arc around Nick's head and forcibly slammed into the rightmost slaver's considerable stomach. Before his descent brought him to his knees, two things happened. The Punisher found itself resting lightly against the first slaver's chin, and the old man in the back of the crawler erupted in tearful laughter.   
"Who are y-" the remaining, and now not nearly so brave slaver was interrupted.  
"Dont breathe." The flat venom in Nick's voice was so iced that even the man in the crawler stopped short. "Its people like you that cause the faithlessness in this world." Wolfwood didnt entirely know what he was saying, "Its people like you who never see goodness for what it is." Nick stepped close to the man, close enough to smell the sweat that was beading on his forehead, trickling into horrified eyes. "Your going to wait for your friends to wake up, and then your going to walk. I dont care where, but if, by the graces of God I ever lay eyes on you again, so help me I will inflict the judgement of all thats holy on your undeserving carcass." He had never spoken words like that, and it frankly surprised him. He knew better, however, than to make it seem a bluff. He took two steps away from the slaver and spun the Punisher up onto his shoulder. The man went white.   
Wolfwood never looked back. He swung himself into the driver's seat and placed the Punisher in the seat beside him, almost lovingly. He glanced at the Slavers, one still standing open-mouthed and ghostly, and shook his head. A brave old world that had such lowlings in it. He pulled away, back in the direction he was walking. Even that seemed so long ago, but it was only minutes. The crawler rumbled on for a few minutes, with Nicholas at the helm, trying in vain to continue what seemed to be an occupation; sorting things out. Apparent resurrection, misdirection, slavers, it was overwhelming to say the very least. The only thing that saved him this time was the old man.   
"Its nice riding back here and all, but is there any chance I could get you to cut my ropes, son?" The old man's voice was kind, and quite disalarming. Nick glanced over his shoulder and for the first time since, well, he didnt remember when, he smiled. THe old fellow was bald and skinny, but a spryness found itself dancing in his deep, knowledgable eyes. Wolfwood let the crawler coast, reaching back to untie the man. After a brief episode with a complicated knot, he resumed driving, and the man tentatively moved intot eh passenger seat. He was weary of the cloth covered cross, moving it with what could almost have been observed as respect. The man propped it against him and glanced to his apparent new friend. Wolfwood was a young man, by standard, and the way he handled his weapon of choice was astounding. To the old fellow, though, it was neither of these that caught his attention. As Nick stared out into the desert, the man grew solemn. He saw in those eyes a load of grief and pain. An emotion that would never flow onto Nick's features, but hid carefully in the recesses of his mind. THe man knew it for what it was, and nodded to himself. "There is a village about forty five iles from here, to the south," he pointed. "I'm Giddeon, a friend. Thank you, son, for helping me. Kindness like that is difficult to find in a world like ours." For his trouble and introduction, he got a nod. The boy was lost in his own business, so better to let him be. Giddeon curled up in the seat next to the Punisher. For some reason, the old, haggard man felt safe in the presence of the holy man. "Goodnight," he breathed.  
Nick looked once over at the old man. Giddeon, he realized, were the types of people who deserved second chances, and perhaps people like Giddeon were the reasons he had been granted such an amazing gift. Either way, the old man was shortly in a light slumber, and Nick looked back out over the hood of the crawler. Sand, just lonely sand. 


	3. Blind Eyes

AN - Well chapter three rolls around. First of all, thanks to R&R'ers and any who show interest. Anyone that reads please review! I appreciate it and always incorporate ideas and suggestions. On that note, feel free to post a negative review if you think it'll jar some good ideas into my head, lol. Alrighty, I appreciate everything and I'm trying to keep the juices going...  
  
DISCLAIMER - Forgot these in the earlier chapters x_x. I dont own Trigun or anything related to it outside my own assortment of DvDs. The storyline is my own, so please no republication, and all that jazz. Read and Enjoy.  
  
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The sandcrawler was slow, but it moved. Nick and Giddeon road the ambling mechanical beast for a numner of hours, eventually able to make out the distant shapes of what seemed to be tents. Minor amounts of luminescence escaped rounded walls and low-slung flaps. Nick could make out the shapes of people here and there, all milling around sparadic camp fires. Even before Nick slowed the low fueled crawler to a stop, the general air of the campsite set in on him. The figures shuffling back and forth carried a defeated burden on each shoulder. They dragged their feet, hung their heads, and spoke in low voices. Why were they not in a city? What kind of life was this?   
His train of thought was altered a touch as Giddeon's voice brought him back to the present,"Please, boy, I insist you stay with us tonight. We can get you refueled and some provisions." Gideon's voice was already strained, but Nick could hear the subtle pride in his voice. Apparently even being able to spare something for a wanton stranger was respectable. "We dont have much here, but we get by."  
"You live here?" Wolfwood's voice held no inflection, but if it had, surprise would predominate. It was the first word's he'd spoken since Giddeon had fallen asleep hours prior.   
"Its one of the coolest places in the desert. Our moisture farmers are successful enough, we have food that grows fast enough in the cool tent. Only real problems out here are sandstorms."  
"Why dont you live in the city?" The both swung themselves out of the crawler, and it seemed as his feet stomped into the shifting sand, a harsh reality set upon him like a whipcrack. The Punisher, like some necessary symbiote, rested on his shoulder like an extention of his body. He shook his head, sad, so sad. He didnt, however, make any move to replace the Punisher.  
"City?" Giddeon's old face held a concerned and quizzical look. "Barely any cities exist anymore." the old man shook his head. Such knowledge was set behind aged eyes. "Nearly every city was annihliated in the panics. Where have you been, boy?" Giddeon didnt wait for an answer. He headed instead toward the closest fire, where people had now noticed the approach of the pair.   
Wolfwood settled in step behind Giddeon. Again his mind slipped into the three beat waltz it had become familiar with; why, when, and what for? Various answers moved through his head like intangible mists, and he couldnt place any logic with them to make them stick. He hardly noticed the first row of tents pass, or the questioning eyes of people who looked like weathered sheeks. Wolfwood recessed into himself. He felt sorry for these people, but not because of where they lived, or how they lived. When he did bring himself to look through his tangle of hair amoung the people of this "camp", he saw in their eyes a lack of faith, a lack of something to believe in. He'd seen it before. These people werent living, they were surviving.   
Giddeon had stopped. The haggard old one had stopped before an octagonal tent that wouldnt have looked out of place with a band of gypsies. Now that he thought about it, Nick noticed that none of the other tents had any color at all. This, however, was splayed with reds, greens, and a hint of blues.   
"Wait here," Giddeon had a gnarled hand raised towards Nick's chest, and after a moment to make sure Wolfwood wouldnt follow. Giddeon stepped inside, leaving nick, and the Punisher, standing where they were. The priest let his eyes roam. Here and there were odd shaped or sized tents, all constructed of canvas or animal hide. From near each weary eyes watched him from behind tired visages. A small smile crept into the corners of Nick's mouth. God was with these people. He could see it in the set of their jaws, the square of their shoulders. He shifted his feet, adjusting the Punisher on his shoulders. Had he forgotten what it was to be a priest? He feared that the Gung-Ho Gun ran in his veins. How close had he been to killing those slavers?  
"Come inside," Nicholas was snatched from his deepening thoughts by Giddeon's sandpaper voice. Wolfwood half turned to see the old one hunched through the flap of then large tent, holding it open for him. Nick nodded and stepped through, tucking the Punisher under his arm and ducking his head to allow passage. Light inside the tent permeated from several knee-high braziers, and several torches were hung from the angled roof. It was a meagerly furnished tent, but Nick could gather that even these meager furnishings were lavish in this village. A two high-backed chairs, a small table, a cot, and what looked to be a cooking area. Indeed lavish. As his assessment completed, Nick found the tent's occupant. An elderly woman sitting just to the left of the cooking pit. She sat indian style, looking up at him with pupiless white eyes.  
"Welcome to Hope, traveller," he grandmotherly smile almost felt comforting. Almost.   
"Hope?" Wolfwood waited for Giddeon, who upon taking the four-step causeway to where they were, promptly sat indian style opposite the woman. Nick followed suit, letting the Punisher rest against his back.   
"Hope is what we call our fair settlement," she made a sweeping hand gesture, "Hope is all we have." She re-folded her hands in her lap. "Giddeon tells me you rescued him, in a fashion. Its rare to find those kinds of acts these days. We wouldnt even have known, the old codger never stays in touch." Those sightless eyes swept toward Giddeon.   
Nick only allowed his confusion to last for the briefest of instants. Giddeon wasnt a village member, but obviously important. "I assume you are the leader of Hope?" Wolfwood's voice was laden with repressed curiousity, but he managed one question at a time.  
"Hope doesnt have a leader. We have a council. I just happen to be the oldest citizen. The council looks to me for guidance on some issues, and they consider my age an asset. I've seen most anything this desert has to offer." She sighed once, reaching over her shoulder and pulling forward a long white braid. It immediately became an instrument of her attention. "Where do you come from, traveller?"  
"I'm not sure, honestly," Wolfwood. "I should be dead. I think I was dead. I remember Millie and Meryl, and Chapel." Wolfwood ground his teeth, but continued. He didnt know why he felt compelled to tell these two elderlies anything, but he found that he didnt want to stop. "I remember Millie smiling," Wolfwood smiled himself, for once recalling the full image of her smiling features, "and I told her to take the Punisher to Vash. And -"  
The blind woman hissed, and her eyes went wide. "Never, Never mention that name!" As if she could see, she glanced nervously about, tugging on her braid once or twice. "Why do you mock us with this tale? The Red Man hasn't been seen for more years than any human alive has lived. We are easily offended in hope, traveller. Explain yourself."  
Nick looked back and forth between the two, angry looks were his only response. "You'll have to pardon me, ma'am, I-"  
"Hazel, My name is Hazel. Before you continue, outlander," Wolfwood noticed the connotation that went along with the change in label, "what name do you go by. The truth, mind you."  
"Wolfwood, my name is Nicholas D. Wolfwood." Hazel went white. Her face was slack, and her jaw trembled.  
"Giddeon, look at this man, describe him to me." Apparently Wolfwood was no longer in the general convorsation.  
The old man, as Wolfwood had so many times referred to him, glanced at him, his composure movie beyond worried. "He is tall, dark hair, sharp features. He picks at his pockets as if looking for something. He," Giddeon wrung his hands over his lap, glance darting between the two, "he wears a blue suit with silver cross cufflinks." Hazel inhaled, her voice moving into a hurried whisper, a look of utter horror crossing her face.   
"Anything else, Giddeon, anything?"  
"He carries a large cross, covered in straps and canvas." Giddeon whimpered the last part.   
"Impossible," Hazel breathed. Her sightless gaze fixed on Nick, holding him like an iron vise. "You must wait outside, Priest." Again the change in label, and apparently status. "Please, Giddeon and I have much to discuss."  
Wolfwood stood and frowned, shaking his head, hefting the Punisher and wishing he could ask more questions. He recognized a volatile situaiton, and did as requested. A few steps and he was outside. Giddeon was right, he found himself fidgiting at his pockets for a cigarette he knew wasnt there. Why had she acted so strangely? Did she recognize Vash's name? There were answers to be had here, he could feel it. The tempo of his mind's waltz was increasing, and answers just out of his grasp were becoming tangible. At least, he hoped so.  
  
"Giddeon, you mustn't speak of this. This man is to remain unknown, unquestioned, and unscathed." Hazel was sweating now, cracking her knuckles, and breathing heavily. "He must, must remain here, in my tent. I have much to ask him. If he is who you've described, then something phenominal has happened." A lightbulb went off in her head, "Quickly! Get him back in here, he musnt be bothered!" She maked rushed shooing motions with her hands.  
"Alright Hazel, but who is this man?" the tremble in Giddeon's voice as he scrambled for the tent flap betrayed him.   
"If he is who he claims, Giddeon," Hazel took a deep, fearful breath, "the the Cross Man walks the world again."  
Giddeon thought he had almost made it to the flap of the tent before he realized he was no longer moving. It seemed as though the essence of fear had manifested in Giddeon's recent rescuer. It wasnt possible. The Cross Man had been the Red Man's friend, and there was no way he could be alive. Simply no way.  
  
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Quick Note - Just wanted to make it clear that thus far, all chapters are dedicated to Trin. She's been a great friend and a serious confidence crutch even when I didnt have either leg. I appreciate it and hope I continue to please. Enjoy all. 


	4. Sudden Purpose

AN: Well I got more feedback than I thought, and I appreciate it! Please keep it coming, it helps motivation levels greatly. I just got some new ideas for upcoming events, so I hope everyone enjoys them. I hope I dont burn out or run dry, because I'm trying to get these out as quickly as possible. Anyway, thanks to the readers and reviewers. I couldnt be more greatful.  
  
Disclaimer - Refer to chapter 3, same stuff.  
  
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Wolfwood had found rest, not peace. He sat cross-legged across from Hazel well into the early morning hours. They traded tales of both past and present. Wolfwood recounted his hazy memories, regurgitating information, losing his sight to the dancing flames that burned ever-lower in the tent. That once large tent had seemed to draw inward, isolating the two occupants from the outside world. Hazel had readily explained the events, the history of Gunsmoke in general terms, emphasizing only the areas that pertained to the "Red Man" or the world-rending catastrophes after his dissapearance. It seemed as though Vash, the Man in Red, whatever his namesake was; he had been one of the few seals of Justice on Gunsmoke. When his influence was gone, the fear of the Red Stampede diminished with time.   
  
Wolfwood interjected almost absently. The extent of time he'd been gone had not sunk in until he had finally spoken to this woman. He had asked about the companions of the Man in Red, and each answer was accompanied by a furrowing of her brow and a series of nervous, sightless glances to the darker corners of the tent. It wasnt possible. He had really been dead. Dead. With each passing minute the tale had gotten progressively more dire, and ever more helpless. The people had fled the cities, abandoning hope, abandoning sanity, and more importantly, abandoning the Plants. Actual armies had been raised, running freely with little to no intervention. The willingness to live in a world without legend had lessened. The sheer willingness to survive that had burned in the hearts of the citizenry had dwindled to a flicker in the span of the first fifty years. That first half-decade had been aptly named "The Panic".   
  
The world had swirled into dark times. Wolfwood found that he had his arms wrapped around one of the Punisher's lateral arms, hugging it to his chest. It seemed to be an anchor in reality. Something he could touch, and trust. It was his light at the end of an impossibly dark tunnel. It wasnt until the fires burned low and both inhabitants had a hunch in their weary shoulders that the real news came. Through two hundred some-odd years of isolated exclusion, two facts dominated his burden-racked brain. No one saw Vash die, and the Gung-ho Guns were still among the world.  
  
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The predawn chill seeped inside the walls of the tent, as if pushing relentlessly to eavesdrop on the most interesting convorsation in decades. Hazel still remained, statuesque, wrapped in a blanket of some dark-colored skin. Wolfwood was across from her, stretched out and propped on his elbow, the Punisher never out of arms reach. He would have looked almost casual, almost happy, had it not been for the rings around his eyes, and the grim set of his features. So much history, so much sadness. It was no wonder to him why these people didnt hold God as close as he saw Him holding them. They didnt have time. In the old days, he condemned people for that excuse, but here, now, it was simple fact. They were too busy surviving. A wall like silence that was near-touchable had settled between them, as if the fire was a dampener of wills. Neither wanted to break the silence. They had drawn inward, deducing, processing, and calculating. Seconds seemed to stretch beyond minutes to years. Nicholas knew the feeling overly well.  
  
"Hazel," Wolfwood began, rubbing at his eyes, "you've told me more than I could hope to learn on my own, and I am greatful. You have to understand my curiosity, though, when I ask how you know so much." the Priest allowed himself to stare for the briefest of seconds at the cross cufflinks on his wrists before looking up to meet a gaze that didnt look back.  
  
For the first time since their original meeting, the grandmotherly smile returned. "You must understand, Nicholas, I am an old woman." He fingers danced along her braid as she thought aloud. "My grandfather was a young man in the years just prior to Vas -" she paused, frowning at herself, still not able to call the infamous one by his actual name, "to the Red Man's dissapearance. He worked as a Bernardelli Insurance Agent."   
  
Wolfwood reeled a bit. That was the company those two girls had worked for. The company that had vested a large interest in Vash, and his whereabouts. If he had it figured correctly, no others on the planet were as effective as Bernardelli agents in locating and maintaing taps on Vash. He allowed his mind's scales to weigh the news as it circulated through his thoughts, only after a moment realizing that Hazel had paused. "Please, go on."  
  
Hazel's smile returned a bit as she continued. "He would always tell me stories about a pair of fanatical girls that were assigned to Vash," she flinched visibly at her own slip, and that gaze began to dart. But as she went on, a seething emotion that could almost be pegged as rage calmed her fidgits, "I was a very small girl, but I still remember the tales. That was, of course, before the Guns got to the agency. They-"  
  
"The who?" Nicholas' attentiveness increased tenfold.  
  
"The Gung-Ho Guns," Hazel allowed her point to deviate. If not for discussing painful memmories, then to allow mor information. "They were a group of oddly, and dangerously, talented killers. They went after the Red Man before he dissapeared. The Typhoon's dissapearance was so complete that not even the Agency knew where he went. That didnt stop them, though. They systematically killed every agent that didnt know something, leveled every office." She shook her head. "They never stop."  
  
"What are you saying? The Gung-Ho Guns still exist?" Wolfwood's pulse wasnt racing, it was sprinting. He could feel blood boiling in his veins. The Gung-Ho Guns had stolen a life from him, crossed him, and then gone after his friends. Old debts and grudges die hard.   
  
"The Guns still exist. And as strong as ever," she looked at him quizzically, as if not knowing made his tale more believable. "They hole up in the new July City. Just under three hundred iles from here." She shook here head. "They have a standing army of near two thousand. Of course, they dont need that many. Who would oppose them? Gunsmoke is deserts and mountains. But strange things have been happening as of late. Oddities in the weather. My old bones ache sometimes."  
  
Purpose.  
  
"Which direction to July City?" the firepit held no candle to Wolfwood's eyes. If Hazel only knew.   
  
"East. Due east. But you cant get to it straightaway." Her brow creased, and for a moment Nick thought she would wag a finger at him and tell him to "Stay away from there, young man", but she didnt. "There is another village, an Atoll about sixty iles from here, to the Northeast. The better part of two days with that sand crawler you came in. Six days if you walk. Tell them I sent you, and you should be able to find what you need to make it to your next stop. Priest," she was still skeptical about addressing him by first name, "what is your interest with those beasts?"   
  
"I have a score to settle with them. They," He looked down at his hands, "they took something from me."   
  
Hazel pressed no further. "Priest, you have to understand my reverence to you. But you must also understand my urgency at this time. If word got out about you, even a rumor, it could prove the undoing of my community. I have to ask you to leave, and soon. Dawn is fast approaching. I can tell the villagers and the council you were a person friend of mine. I will, however, give you anything you need." Her look was one of dissapointment in herself, but firm resolve. Nicholas admired her.  
  
"I'll only need gas, and some water." Nick ran a hand through his hair. "And a haircut."  
  
Hazel laughed for a moment. "Very well, Priest. Sleep a while. I will see to your things." Hazel unwound her legs and stretched like an old tabby cat. She shook herself a bit, tired from the night's endeavours. Oh how she'd love to tell everyone that in the despair of Gunsmoke, hope still lives.  
  
Nicholas stretched out, reclining against the Punisher. He sighed a bit slipping out of his jacket and using it as a blanket. So many new things. So many new avenues unexplored. Perhaps the most important thing, though, was purpose. 


	5. Survival and Life

AN: Thanks for the feedback. Seems like I'm attracting new readers somehow. I'm loving it, lol. I appreciate all the reviews. I promise chapter 5 will have a little more action. Hopefully you'll stay interested long enough to finish it. Really getting into it, hope I can stick with the storyline. Thanks all!  
  
Shadowcat - Thanks for the tips, especially about the typos. I hate notepad. x_x  
  
DISCLAIMER - I dont own Trigun or affiliates. Just love the DvD's and stuff. Storyline is my own, no republication please. Other than all that stuff, enjoy. :B  
  
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It was four hours to dawn. Wolfwood hadnt stopped in nearly sixteen hours. His tired eyes squinted against the sun that slanted against his determined visage. The sandcrawler's lights provided little solace from the darkness that seemed not to be, but to lurk. The world was an unfamiliar place now, and he didnt enjoy the implications. He had one arm draped over the passenger seat, wherein rested his Punisher. He glanced at it half-heartedly in the darkness. It wasnt much of a convorsationalist. Sixteen hours and he already craved human companionship again. Hazel had been overly kind, but stern. She had cut his hair, thankfully, and it was to its old length, away from his eyes. She had given him a few shirts, some fuel, rations, and even a few packs of home-desert-grown cigarettes.  
  
Kind of ironic to think that he always guessed smoking would kill him. He took a long pull from one of the pungent cigarettes now, allowing his eyes to close for a brief moment. Back for so little time, and already on another mission. He could convince himself he would have liked to settle down in a village like Hazel's, but he'd be lying. Something deep inside, past his emotions, past rational thought, something near-primal welled inside every time his thoughts strayed to the Gung-Ho Guns. His trigger fingers always seemed to itch.   
  
The crawler ambled on over the dunes for another twenty minutes, or thereabouts, and Nick gauged that he needed some rest and refuel time. He had only just turned the crawler off and flipped on the cab lights when he heard it.   
  
Gunshot.  
  
No mistaking. He knew that sound like a husband knows his wife's scream. It made his blood race and bones chill in the same instant. Several breathless heartbeats passed before Nick realized he had both snatched up the Punisher and clicked off the lights in the open-air cab. He reached up to scrub at his eyes and shake his head, wanting to clear the cobwebs, but he heard it again. And then the night exploded. The rattle of gunfire seemed to be everywhere. Torches and flares danced to life around the dune he had so convienently summitted not two minutes hence.   
  
Nick thought he had stumbled into the middle of a battle. Then it hit him. There were no cries of pain, laments for fallen ones, and no sounds of retreat. He heard the approach of motors, saw the waving of weapons, and the closing of a circle of bodies. They were predators; he was the prey. "Should have known," he shook his head, whispering, "should have known."  
  
He stood in the seat, fully expecting to be shot in mid-action, but no such fate. At the edges of the growing mass, he could see barely restrained hysteria painted across the faces of what could only be described as a horde. Nick stood, one foot on each seat, hand resting on the top of the Punisher for balance. He scanned the closing circle, trying to make out the incoherent mumblings of these savages. Savages. He scolded himself. Who was he to judge so quickly? His mind raced at how to address these people, but he was forestalled. All at once the group to the left of the crawler fell to a hush, and the ripple effect thereafter was total. The horde parted, admitting a tall, lithely muscular man through.   
  
He was bald, and shirtless, and he looked like something from a children's horror tale. He had curving tatoos all over his upper body, outnumbered only by scars. His eyes shone like those of a wolf caged too long, and a sneer hinted at his features. He was in charge, no doubt about it. When he spoke, it was like rocks on sandpaper.   
  
"Seems as though you've been," the man looked around, and grinned, "caught." This brought a ragged cheer from his band. He rubbed his hands together. Nick took notice of weapons. A handle of some kind poking over his shoulder, and two pistols at his hips.  
  
"Seems that way." Nick didnt enjoy procrastinating. "What do you want?" He had begun working his hand under one of the straps of the Punisher. "  
  
"So eager," the bald man mocked a shiver of happiness, bringing a collection of chuckles from those close. "I'm Noctur. These are my people, they - "  
  
"This is your army." Nicholas interjected. The reaction was instant.   
  
"Silence!" Noctur screamed, splotches of red apprearing at his cheeks. "No one interrupts me. No one!" the last was a growl, and a threat the Wolfwood promptly ignored.  
  
"You mean to kill me, and take my things. How very unfair. You would show no mercy to any traveller, would you, you parasite?" Wolfwood's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Women, children, it wouldnt matter." Click. The straps began to loosen. "You would kill them for whatever they ha-"  
  
"I told you not to speak!" Noctor was infuriated, his hand ventured immediately to the gun at his left hip.  
  
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH." Nicholas' resounding command froze the air in every lung within earshot. Mercy had come to these people, and they knew it. "It is people like you, like I used to be, people who kill with no purpose," he was speaking more to himself, now, "people that want to judge when they kill, people who think they are suitable to weigh the actions of another." His breath came in ragged gasps, and his blood was one part adrenaline, one part rage.   
  
Noctur was frozen. His hand gripped the butt of his pistol so hard it hurt, but this fanatical priest represented everything he feared. No one had ever stood up to he and his band. Never. His brain screamed at him to utter "shoot him" or something of the nature, but his motor skills were locked tight. For the first time in ten years, since he attained leadership of these raiders, for the first time, he was afraid.  
  
Nicholas grabbed a handful of canvas and growled, snatching it away from the Punisher. Even to him, his actions seemed contradictory. He reached down, eyes fixated on Noctur, and his impenatrable rage cracked. His fingers probed and searched for the rachet handle in the center of the Punisher. It wasnt there. He looked down at his most trusted friend, and the crack became a gash. It wasnt the Punisher. His mind reeled, his confidence wavered, and his world got suddenly smaller. Until, that is, he realized what it was. The cross he had been toting for the days he'd been alive; it was the Evergreen.  
  
Noctur was afraid, but not unseasoned, his fear was blasted away when he saw his prey falter. His pistol was drawn and cocked, pointed at the ground. "You know, holy man," he growled, angered and embarrassed, having never been usurped in front of his men, "I've seen heat do odd things to men, but I think you've been crazy for a while now." He heard the priest mumble. "What did you say?" He grinned, having suspected a whimper. He was wrong.  
  
"God will sort you out," he whispered again, and then judgement was upon them. Nick tapped the base of the Evergreen on the floorboard, and let both halves dump into either arm. He whirled on Noctur, and he was Wolfwood again. The Evergreen's barrels roared to life, spitting fire and death in whatever direction they were swung. No one retaliated, no one shot back. Hordes of men and some women ran in all directions. Noctur and his entourage had no chance. More than a third of them were cut down by Wolfwood's temporary crusade. He didnt know how the ammunition was still firable, and he didnt care. All he cared about were the lives he was taking.  
  
After countless minutes, Nick sat in the back bed of the crawler, one side of the Evergreen resting against each shoulder, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, looking out over the dunes, and watching the sun rise. Vash had never understood his method to madness. He had no right to kill, but he had less of a right to judge. He always saw things in a deductive line that he believed to be best. If a killer was killed, he was prevented from killing again, and sent directly to where he could be judged. A viscious cycle, but it was simple enough to Wolfwood. He stood, shaking his head again, reattaching the pieces of the Evergreen. Strangely enough, Chapel had built in several pods for extra ammunition. Stranger still, he had it. Too many questions for now. He needed sleep, but as sad as it was, he needed supplies again. He draped the Evergreen over his shoulder moving to the closest body. It was Noctur. Looting wasnt excitable, but it had to be done. Survival against living. Nicholas didnt know which to choose. 


	6. Shallow Graves

AN: Well I'm starting to get a little feedback, and I appreciate my devoted readers. The praise really keeps me going. Wow, that sounded shallow. Anyway x_x. I've also started to read you guys' stuff and I am really enjoying it! Expect reviews from me soon ;) Well, on to the good stuff (or bad stuff, however you look at it), hope its enjoyable.   
  
Shadowcat - I appreciate the continued postings, your really helping me out and I hope to please.  
  
Miss Eriks - Glad you are enjoying my fic. Always a privelage to have another reader. Hope I dont let you down.  
  
Trin - Well if you read these in a lump sum, hope I'm up to par for the standards. Any tips, you know I'll incorporate. Hope all is well with you and yours. Everyone should also check out her fic, Pacifist by Nature - Lily Trindylle. Its a great, GREAT work.  
  
Disclaimer - Good lord, this is longer than my chapters. You know the drill here...Onward! O  
  
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Shallow graves. In years passed they had been dug out of necessity. They marked battles, poverty, or in some cases, unsung heros. Now, however, a grave in any form was an honor. For people of infinite burdens to take time away from the focus of survival to dig a grave spoke worlds for the unfortunate, or in some cases fortunate, inhabitant.   
  
Many graves were dug today. Wolfwood had stopped counting somewhere in the thirties. So many graves. He felt he at least owed it to them. He had killed many of them. Killed, but not judged. Some of them had died thanking him, but he would never know that. He was stripped to the waist, and felt like his bones had liquified. He had worked from dawn to now, and the sun was well past its zenith in the sky. He hadnt slept in a long, long time. He sat down heavily, leaning against the tall wheel of the sandcrawler's front half, wiping a wave of sweat away from his eyes. He reluctantly picked up a jug of water, uncapped it, and dumped a quantity over his head. It was refreshing, to say the least.  
  
He hadnt gone through many of his recent aquisitions, but he knew there were at least some useful items. He had countless rounds of ammunition, lots of containers, some food, and he had noticed several articles of transportation left strewn about. The chaos he had wrought was impressive. He knew, though, that if he dawdled around too long in the insurmountable heat, things would not boad well for his anatomy or rational thought. He heaved himself up, fighting down the urge to light a cigarette. He looked over the sea of ragged crosses that dotted the rises of the dunes nearest him.   
  
He shook his head and shuffled over to his findings. Even though he felt that every little bit helped, he was practical. He systematically set about filling certain packs with guns, others with food, and others with spare clothing that was passable. He was sick of the desert already, and still a few days out of the city Hazel mentioned to him. He trudged back to the crawler, dragging the overstuffed packs behind him, eventually managing to sling them inside the crawler's back seat. Right next to the Evergreen.  
  
The Evergreen. That was probably the second most perplexing phenomena to date. He realized, of course, that Vash had the Punisher, and of course didnt bring it back to the church. That wouldnt have made sense. Nick turned back to the desert, leaning against the machine. The Evergreen, though, was a total mystery. Chapel had killed him with it. His left side still ached when he thought about it. He had seen Chapel flee. Nothing made sense. He shook his head, and had finally resigned himself to leave, but something caught his eye. A glint on something shiny about half way down the dune. Wolfwood ambled down the dune, almost too tired to care, but curiosity got the better of him. He knelt by the buried treasure, wiping away the grit created by the shifting sands. He smiled.   
  
An hour later, he was on the move again. He sat at the wheel of the sandcrawler, he still had tired eyes, but he was smiling. The crawler was his cargo ship, his only livelihood outside the Evergreen. A shame he had to survive by his guns, but peace was never, never attained through nonviolent measures. It was hard to say he was doing God's work, but to think he wasnt here for some purpose of the nature was arrogant, given his recent occurances. The crawler had enough food supplies to last him at least two weeks, and water and gas for another three. The ammunition was abundant, and the clothes would serve. It was the last cargo item, though, that inspired his smile. Propped in the back of the crawler was a faded blue motorcycle. Apparently it had been left in the mayhem he had caused. Wolfwood didnt complain. He loved motorcycles.   
  
Smile as he would, though, it was little distraction from the ache that had penetrated his bones and the sag in his shoulders. Dusk was two hours away when he decided that if he wished to be concious to see the morning, he had to get some sleep. After some minutes of scouting, he located one of the higher dunes and pulled the crawler to it's leeward side. Nick learned from encounters. He lashed down his packs and cycle, slid his food beneath the seats, and layed across the front cab. Of course, the Evergreen was cocked beside him, easily within the reach of his right arm.   
  
Nick stared up at the fading sky for long minutes. His cycle of thoughts swirled around a central eye of logic. None of this should be happening. Divine purpose was hard to comprehend. Wolfwood was searching for some pivotal event that would give him a little insight to things. Perhaps he'd found it. His deep seated hatred for the Gung-Ho Guns could be a derivative of purpose. He didnt know. He percieved the Guns as a cancer on an already dying world. He withdrew that thought as soon as it passed. If Gunsmoke were dying, then something would have killed it a long time ago. Something a lot more profound than a band of thieves with overzealous ambitions. The more he thought about it, the more Nicholas found God in so many aspects here. Hazel and her community, his own deliverance from the band of raiders. He took no credit for that. He was gladly trusting himself to be in the hands of something larger. It sounded almost romantic, or fantastical. He didnt care. When you stay dead for two hundred years, you tend not to just wake up. Gunsmoke was a perilous world in a spiral of uphill struggles. Wolfwood had seen two groups of people, two ends of the spectrum. It gave him hope. There was hope in the world, but evil as well. The balance of power was a funny thing. Wars waged back and forth, people thrown into chaos, it was all a matter of when, not if. It seemed now, however, that hope had been shackled and chained, barely surviving through the people that squared their shoulders and beared the weight of the deserts. Nick closed his eyes. Shallow graves. 


	7. Deception

AN: Alright, after a brief intermission, Wolfwood is back in action. Well, I am at least, his fate is yet to be decided. Just want those who review to know you guys are why I'm writing. I debated for a few days whether to continue or not. I was really hoping for more reviews, guess it isn't captivating enough. I hope I continue to please.  
  
DISCLAIMER - You know the drill here.  
  
  
  
Wolfwood and his companions, namely the sandcrawler and the Evergreen, finally rumbled into sight of the "village" he had been told of a few days prior. It was more to his liking than the tent-dotted community of Hazel's, but only a little more impressive. There were a few plaster and stone buildings, some tents, and what looked like a bazaar that extended around the entirety of it all. Nicholas estimated the conglomeration to be almost a mile across. He could even comprehend how much that meant. It was still a little ways off, and he slowed the crawler at the top of a dune long enough to tuck away his possessions. He knew better than to ask too many questions as well. Anyone with a shred of knowledge that heard his name or associated his belongings, he glanced at the cross, would be immediately hysterical.  
  
So the crawler ambled on, and Nicholas did his best to remain nonchalant about the approach. The circumstance for his last run-in with civilization had been a bit different. This time he had no kindly old man to buy his ticket into town. The town, he dared call it that, loomed ever closer, and soon enough he found it was no illusion. He found a vacant spot to park the crawler, as if vacancies weren't abundant in the desert, and sat for a moment. The difference in these people were astounding. Hawkers and merchants stood around lavish tables with goods of all kinds, children ran in the streets playing with ragged balls and toys, and almost everyone had a smile. Instead of the tired, sagged look carried by a people that were all but totally defeated, these people had the squared shoulders of those who were proud of accomplishment, and rightly so.  
  
Nick found himself smiling as well, and as he scooped up his pack and leaned into the door to open it, he found himself face-to-face with a beautiful red headed woman. "Hey stranger, new to these parts?" she was a blunt one. "Yea, I am actually. Just, looking for a place to rest and buy some water." He smiled back at her, shouldering the pack again. "You've come to the right place," she stepped back and opened the door for him, "Welcome to the Atoll." Wolfwood slung himself out of the crawler, pushing the door shut behind him. "Is everyone around here as hospitable as you?" He looked around for an instant. "Nah, they think I'm just devilish." She laughed and started walking. Nick reached across and grabbed the Evergreen before he fell into step behind her. They walked for a few brief moments behind a row of tables and merchants, and just as Wolfwood began to realize where he was being taken, she turned to him abruptly. "You look like you could use a drink, Mr. ..?" She let both questions hang. "Nick, just Nick. And yes, I'd love a drink." He didn't want to tell her exactly how good that sounded. They walked casually through a break in the tents and tables, past a row of stoops, and into a small building with a swinging wooden door. It was small, and squatty, to say the least. A low bar ran the length of one walls, and several tables dotted the floor that hadn't been cleaned in ages. Nick liked it already. Nick's escort sauntered over to the bar and dropped herself onto a stool, knocking on the bar. The attention swung to her long enough for the nearby patrons to smirk and look back down into their drinks. Wolfwood managed to park himself beside her, waiting. "I didn't catch your name," the Evergreen was leaning against his back, close, as always. "Rossy," she smiled dazzlingly. Nicholas felt himself smiling as well, stupidly. He thought for a moment, how could one person be so increadibly charming? He felt lethargic, just watching her. He shook his head, looking up for a moment. A middle-aged man in a dirty white apron had approached, sliding a smudged glass full of questionable liquid in front of them both. Nick didn't question, he needed a touch of pick-me-up. He took a long drink, and set his glass down. "That was." he looked at her, and then around the room. Everyone was watching him. Everyone. Something had happened. Beads of sweat were on every brow, concerned looks on every face. "What's going on?" The adrenaline that dumped into his system came too late. A wave of nausea washed over him, and his vision tunneled. He pushed away from the bar, but couldn't get his feet under him, his fell backwards and didn't even feel himself wince as he hit the ground. He didn't understand, none of this was right. The active town, the happy faces. The happy faces. He recalled them now, rolling on his stomach to right himself. They weren't happy. He had been foolish, denying close scruntiny. They had strained, falsified looks. He had done it again. Trusted in people, trusted in the good nature that everyone posessed. Wolfwood managed to push to his knees, groping blindly for the Evergreen. His head swam, and he managed to locate the radiant red-haired woman. Something about her was oddly wrong as well. She stood out too much. "Go to the Church, make preparations." The woman's voice was heavily accented and emotionless. "Who are you people?" the words came out like a drunken slur. For his astoundingly hard task of managing to get the words out, the woman made a flourish and tried to crush his skull with her foot. The kick sent him sliding, rendering him progressively unconcious, so slamming into the bar and shattering two stools was indeed unnecessary. The last thing he remembered was hearing distant voices, and being hauled to his feet by what he guessed to be two bar patrons.  
  
The sunlight filtered lazily through the high stained-glass window. Nick wasn't sure if the rustling on the stone floor was from him, or other immediate inhabitants. He blinked hard and rolled over. Thoughts swirled in a cyclone of non-sequential pointlessness. He felt dried blood his face. She kicked him. Ok, that hurt a lot. Next item of business. He opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. Rossy was standing over him, impassive and intimidating. He found he was stripped to the waist, and shoeless. Cuts and bruises dotted his torso, obviously from being drug around. He sat up half-heartedly. "Let me guess," he grimaced at the pain in his jaw, "my crawler?" Her laugh was a sinister sound, "Don't be ridiculous, Priest, you-" "Enough, Rossy." That was a new voice. It was cold, heartless, commanding. Nicholas knew it well. Wolfwood's head swung painfully to the new voice. A man, how could he have missed this giant? He was easily over six and a half feet tall, and his long, dark hair made him seem even taller. He wore a short brown coat that hung open on a bare chest, and dust colored pants that overlapped into boots. "Jail warden?" Nicholas squinted up at him. "No, Nicholas Wolfwood." Nick could feel his face going slack. The man reached inside his jacket and produced a thin black rod. He spun it once, and with a metallic hiss, it elongated and seemed to grow a wickedly curved blade. "I am Narsus the Scythe, first of the Gung Ho Guns." 


	8. Wide Eyes

AN: I seem to have strayed from my style. I cant exactly write like I could in chapter 1 and 2. I wish I still "had it". Anyway, this could be one of my last chapters. I'm kinda losing the luster. Maybe I was too anxious and expected too much. Not sure what will happen. Review if you like, but I hope you enjoy.  
  
DISCLAIMER - Same as always.  
  
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Darkness. It had become so familiar to him. Him. Nicholas, wasnt it? Thats right. The darkness that swirled around his compendium of thoughts ws a dull haze that his senses couldnt penetrate. He wasnt dead; he knew what that felt like. Maybe in a state of limbo, or bodily disrepair. What did he remember? The old woman, a self-imposed mission, a red haired woman, the man in black, and then the man in Red. Why was he there? It didnt make any sense. For every conclusion of thought, it was back to the Red Man. To Vash. Nicholas felt vacant, hollow. He was missing something he realized he never had. He, of course, couldnt specifically decide what it was, but there was a hole in the rock solidness of his emotion. He had his faith, and his dogmas. He had his friend, the Punisher, now the Evergreen. He was missing something.  
  
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Nausea had become a familiar but none-too-pleasant awakening. Nick sat up with a grimace that looked to be tattooed on his features as of late. He uselessly groped for that darkness that was giving way to the harsh realities and substances around him. The cold stone floor, the stained glass window, the iron-bound wooden door; and the stool whereupon Rossy was perched. The Priest opened his mouth to speak, but his lips cracked and bled, and his throat was comparable to the desert outside.   
"Drink your water, you'll be of no use to us dead or delierius." Rossy's voice was like silk, cold silk.   
Wolfwood obeyed. He couldnt deny the cruel irony here. A position of servanthood to a godlike figure. He had to admit she and the Scythe had the qualities. They commanded respect, fear, and obiedience all in one iron-fisted package. He drank greedily, feeling the coppery taste of blood mingle with that of dirty water. He didnt care.   
"What do you want?" His voice was a croak at best.  
"I will let you get away with that, but only once. You will speak only when spoken to." Rossy tossed her fire-red hair. "Narsus knows something of you, and has a vested interest in you, Priest. Were it up to me, you would be tortured and dead." She raised her chin just a bit, "But it isnt, so you will do exactly as I say, when I say it." She left off the "understood"? part, it wasnt a question.   
It was happening again. This woman, this arrogant woman, had become the manifestation of the unnecessary evils in the world he so hated. Hated; that was a funny thought. A man of the cloth, and he felt an underlying hatred that burned in the furnaces that made him tick. He was human. A painful realization for someone who strived so heavily, so adamantly to be godly. That was a thought for another time. He held his fury in check, but the seething desire to hate this woman in any concievable way burst through his rational thought like a sand train.  
"What number did you say you were?" Nicholas ignored the searing pain in his throat. "Which of the infamous gang are you?" His right hand was white-knuckled around his cup, his left crept inside his pants pocket.  
"You would be wise to not concern yourself with me." If she was flustered, she showed no outward sign. "And my patients wears thin with you."  
"There must be a lot of you, now." the Priest had formulated the situation to the T. He knew the procedures well, and the instruments of terror that the Guns used to either raze a town or totally enslave it. "You look young, girl," that had to sting, "high up on the number list?"  
Rossy shifted, as if she wanted to stand but was supressed by unseen weights. "You will hold your tongue, Priest." The venom in her voice was evident. He had gotten to her.  
"Thats what I thought," faith was a funny thing. It made you take risks, believe in things, and be totally willing to do something absolutely foolish. "After Dominique I cant see how the trust in a woman would be restored." His hand found something solid.   
Rossy faltered. How did this Priest know about Dominique? She was dead and gone for over two centuries. Wolfwood's words battered her like winds from a monsoon. Her fire red curls shook with rage who's restraints were rapidly falling away. She calmed, suddenly. The eye of a monstrous storm. Her lips slipped from an angry line into a dazzling smile.   
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice. . . I dont think so.  
Nick's eyes narrowed to blurred slits. He knew this trick for what it was. His right arm snapped forward and slung his cup, still half full, directly at her pearly white smile. She was caught totally off guard. Her eyes widened, her smile slipped, and the cup caught her just under the right eye. She recoiled and fell away from her hummingbird-like perch.   
Wolfwood's laughter was that of someone who was in knowing control. Her rage erupted. She threw herself to her feet and blindly dove for the unmoving holy man. She again never saw it coming. Nick snatched the lock-back knife from the hem of his pants, and unceremoniously grabbed a fistful of red locks. In one calculated but desperate maneuver, he wrestled her down and managed to sit straddled across her stomach.   
The Priest was dead, she lunged for his throat, she could feel the blood washing over her hands from his neck. She was wrong. He moved SO fast. His arm had come up and pulled her to the ground by her hair. Her HAIR. The rough stone floor and her sudden impact stole the breath from her, and when she managed to peer through the stars in her vision, that arrogant bastard was sitting on her. She growled and made to say something, but that idea too, was predicted and forestalled.  
Nick clapped a hand over her mouth and made a point of placing the knife against her throat.   
"All you had to do was tell me your number." Wolfwood's arms were tensed in rage, and veins at his temples bulged with the racing of blood. So much hate. No, he had to stop himself. He fought the internal battle for an eternity that spanned between heartbeats, but he won over himself. The hatred slipped away, and his composure remained. When she died, he would be the least of her problems.  
Things went bad again.  
"Rossy, dear," that sinister voice eminated from the doorway behind him, "do you know why Mr. Priest here knows so much of us?" Nicholas was frozen. The situation sized up as a standoff. He should have known better.  
"Because, Rossy the Read," Nick could hear the grin through the man's words, "Nicholas D. Wolfwood was thirteenth of the Gung Ho Guns."   
All eyes went wide, all except for those on the evil face of Narsus. 


	9. Dying Day

Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls.....He's Back! Everyone's favorite Trigun FanAuthor is quill-armed and ready to compose some of the greatest literary -- alright, that got old. Point is, I got sick of seeing the temporary ending to my own fanfic. Back for more. Enjoy :)  
  
DISCLAIMER - Now, you know the legal stuff, but this is mostly for story purposes. There may be some discrepancies between actual storyline fact and what I have written. Please excuse this and if you like, point it out to me. Its been a while since I've seen the eps.  
  
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Tiny cracks ran across the dark cobblestones like so many rivers. The mortar between the stones had long discolored and partially eroded. Dim, eerie light played upon the walls like phantoms in a decrepid haunt. Another church. So much irony in the world. The walls moved by slowly, and the dull roar gradually built, like a tsunami of sound moving slowly enough to instill fear that had time to marinate. Bodies became purposeless masses, wastes of space. Things seemed so minescule when the question of purpose was asked. But somewhere in the distant corners of the era, somewhere beyond comprehension of anyone anywhere, something had happened. Something had happened to a dead man.  
  
Today was a dying day.  
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The church was hell. There could be no other conclusion that would come to Wolfwood. He was hauled into what he assumed had been the chapel. Now, though, this place of sanctuary had become a gladiatorial arena. Old pews and new benches lined the walls in a crude circle, and they were stacked three deep. Nick sat on the blood stained floor of this unholy battleground, stairing at the newest object of his hatred. Sitting in front and just below a stained glass window depicting a cross, was Narsus. He sat in a huge chair surrounded by half-clothed women and armed men that had to be fellow Guns.   
Nick waited. He was good at waiting. His seering gaze swept across the gathering. Half the town was here, maybe more. All cheering, jesting, and occasionally throwing things at him. They were here to watch him be killed. He thought his anger was at its pinnacle; he was wrong. With every face distorted in a guttural howl or fist raised to cheer, his inner anger magnified.   
Nick hung his head and clenched his fists. So much hate. He could feel the bonds on his dogma weakening. He was saved, however, by the sudden hush of the crowd. Narsus had stood, his presence was a silencing catalyst. Something was happening.  
"My dear people," that monotone, emotionless voice was the bannerman for the inevitable. "Today I've brought you sport." He pointed to the still shirtless Wolfwood, "This wretch who wishes to disturb our peaceful ways, against our champion," the pointing hand swept to a gap in the pews. "Myar the Mace." No sooner had the words left his mouth did the crowd again erupt as the Mace emerged.   
He was huge. Not tall, necessarily, actually about Wolfwood's height. His arms looked like knotted chords of rope and his chest belonged on a mountain with all its fellow boulders. He wore a mask over his face, and his right hand was a circular club.   
To any man of sane mind, this would be a fate to face hoping a quick death. Not Nicholas. He stood, rather, he uncoiled. They wanted sport, these patrons of this vile residence. His hands clinched and unclinched, just waiting.  
"Fight," Narsus smirked and sat, draping one leg lazily over the chair arm.   
Mace came at him with hardly more than a snarl. He swung his club arm with enough force to fell a tree, or crush Nick's skull. He wasnt even close. Nick sidestepped out of the deadly arc and danced backwards. This foe was strong, but not fast. How could he kill so easily? What posessed this man, this creature, to kill so willingly? Nick allowed his confusions to seep into his concentration, and he faltered. Mace drove a shoulder into his stomach and sent him sailing like a rock from a sling. The impact cracked the pew he landed against.   
Nick stood, slowly, only to meet another advance. The bodily spear drove air from his lungs and forced his eyes into an involuntary bulge. Darkness mingled with bursts of color in his vision. Another blow to his body came, and another. He slumped, and slid against the rough wooden planks. Perhaps this was the end, again. Mace lifted Wolfwood by his throat, grinning a yellow-toothed grin. Death was so imminent. Nick felt like he could reach out and touch the darkness that awaited him oh-so-comfortingly.  
He opened his eyes, expecting the darkness. And it happened.   
Maybe it was the rage that erupted inside him, maybe it was his unwillingness to die, or maybe it was the scene that had played out before him. As Mace hoisted him so bodily upwards, Nick had come into full veiw of Narsus. He was sitting there so arrogantly, so mockingly, just in front of the window with the inset cross. That was it.   
Anger erupted as power.  
He couldnt be sure, but when he batted Mace's arm away, Nick distantly remembered hearing it snap in half. The man's eyes widened and he fell away in an unceremonious pile, groping at his arm.   
Nick walked purposefully toward Narsus. His eyes where white, and no man, no being would stand before him. Rightousness had manifested. Two armed guards snatched shocksticks from their belts and leapt over the barrier, charging for the Priest. The first unfortunate to reach him was dealt a killing blow that broke every rib from sternum down. The second managed to slide to a stop just as Wolfwood's kick broke his neck.   
Crowd members began piling over the barriers, wanted desperately to save their master. Wolfwood became tangled in the mass of bodies and watched near-helplessly as his "prey" slowly walked back into the recesses of the church. Whatever anger erupted previously held no candle to now. His scream slew assailants, shattered walls, and directed the force of God through the surrounding buildings. It was a devistating effect. Wrath driven righteousness had not been seen in a very long time, not since Fifth Moon.  
  
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I have a strange feeling that tells this chapter sucks x_x. Agree or disagree if you like. Thanks. 


	10. Aftermath

Wooooo! Back with a vengance baby! Lets see if I still got it. I know chapters 8 and 9 were shoddy, but I'm going to see if I can do them up right with 10. Onward.   
  
Disclaimer - You know the drill..  
  
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Wafts of smoke wound themselves in slow curls to all corners of the small, dark room. Sunlight slanted through the glossy window at odd angles, creating a half-lit environment that made normal vision uncomfortable. It took a while to take in the surroundings, however meager. Faded yellow walls and a flaking white ceiling showed the wear and tear of what could be classified as ages. The withered tan carpet ran the span of the floor, stopping just shy of every baseboard, which were marred and dirty as well. No one had cared about this place long enough to salvage it. With the way history had been turning, especially as of late, more and more sunrises found abandoned homes, shattered lives, and endless graves. It was that very same sunlight that filtered lazily through the distented window pane in its odd angles. The room seemed to glow, albeit faint, but it was a comforting notion in a world of preverbial darkness. A cot sat against the back wall, lonely, and a small nightstand beside it were the only furnishings other than a solitary chair.  
  
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It had been three days. Three days since Nicholas had found this place. A week since the disaster. He couldnt bring himself to think about it anymore. He just couldnt. He sat, stripped to the waist, facing the wall. His right hand clung half-heartedly to a half-full glass of whiskey and more determinedly to a cigar crooked in his finger. He was wasting away, and he knew it. So many people had died. That wasnt him, not even in the old days. In any other situation, he would have let that behemoth kill him, all the while tossing off witty one-liners that were the edge of the knife of his humor. Not anymore.  
He had stumbled upon this place by accident. Nicholas wandered out of the devestation, into the desert. It was an old refueling station. The irony of the place mocked him relentlessly. An old, gutted building, a shell of what it once was. He couldnt even find the motivation to get up and shave. To put it in terms he could face, he was scared. He wasnt capable of that. He hadnt even seen Va - -, no, dont think about him. He wasnt capable. He was just Wolfwood; previous Gung Ho and travelling Priest. That last part struck a funny note. A man of such devoted faith, such unwavering confidence, and he was shaken to his core. He had a second chance at everything; at life, at purpose, and he had used it to slaughter people that were potentially innocent. If he had any tears left, they would have fallen.   
Nicholas looked up to the back wall, his new object of hatred sat there, looking decidedly inanimate. The Evergreen. He didnt even know how he had come across it again, but he had. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the details after the...whatever it was, were blurry. He had tried several times after finding his solace to muster his fury again, to concentrate and build some kind of motivation. It never worked. The viscious cycle of thoughts always came back to the killing. He didnt think he could ever escape it.   
Wolfwood reached into his pocket with his left hand, taking another drink of his whiskey. He quietly removed the cufflinks he had tucked away two days hence. He stared at them. Those small silver symbols, those crosses, were everything he lived by. Everything he thought he lived by. He closed his fist around the trinkets.  
"Why," he whispered, and slung them across the room, off to his left. "Why did you put me here?" his sardonic voice broke, and the tears he thought he had emptied came anew. He hadnt cried since he had died the first time, and that was oh so long ago. "Is this my hell?" He shook his head, staring down at the gun in his lap. He could do it, sure. Maybe whatever hell he was delivered to would be more of a grace than this.   
"Not hell, Priest, but close." The voice came from behind him. All of the training, experience, and knowledge should have taken over, but they didnt. Nick turned slowly, sniffing and pawing at his eyes.  
"Who are you?" Nicholas almost didnt care, he almost hoped this, wait -- who was this? A boy stood there, tall and lanky. He had dark, pushed up hair, and he leaned casually against the doorframe. It wasnt his penetrating green eyes or confident smile that put him out of place, it was his coat. It was long, floor length, and red. It buttoned in a strip of black down the middle, and ran into his gloves on his curled fists that were crossed over his chest.   
"Someone who knows all about you." He took a few purposeful steps toward Wolfwood, and relieved Nick of his glass. "All about you," the boy drank, pulled a face, and handed it back. "That tastes horrid." He shook his head and stretched. Why did that seem so familiar?  
"What do you want, boy?" Nick thought about threatening with his gun, but even he knew it would be a hollow taunt.   
"Its not about what I want, Priest." The moved over to the opposite wall, bent down, and picked up the two crosses. "Your coming, arent you?" He turned and casually strode toward the door.   
"Where?" Wolfwood had no intention of moving.  
The boy stopped, "To see him," he looked over his shoulder, "He's been waiting for you," with that, he stepped outside.  
Nicholas moved. 


	11. Reunion

Wow, I didnt think I'd ever write on this again, but what do you know, Mister Inconsistant is back in action. Maybe I'll bang out a few chapters from my boredom before I go on the inevitable hiatus again...anyway...onyward to the soon-to-be-underreviewed materal..  
  
Disclaimer...man this gets old.  
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Shadows are a funny thing sometimes. Light can play on the features of anything and anyone to distort and offer a new perception of an image. It is often, though, the darker shadow that creates and instills the sense of dread within the core of a person. Something about the way the absence of light seems to linger in the most distant corners of the nooks, crannies, and crevices of the mind evokes the deepest fears in most. However, every light has a darkness, and every darkness has a light. It was into this darkness that the light was found. The journey was no easy one, and it was one that cannot be turned away from. This brilliance, hidden within the black veil of absolute doubt, would come to be the greatest righteousness ever known...  
  
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He watched as the the ice inside the faded glass created little rainbows through the droplets gathering on the outer surface. He smiled. It was the simple pleasures he so dearly ebmraced, now. His life was simple, he and Cayle were a family. Thats all he needed. But it was different now. His kind, and aged features faded from a reminiscent smile to a stone-etched determination. Things had changed. The Priest was back. How, he didnt know, but distantly he smiled again, inwardly. The fact that the travelling Priest was alive gave credit to his life, his cause. He had lived for so long, for so long had advocated his practices of pacifism, despite having to use contradictory methods. Such were the ways of the world, he told himself every time. He had to tell himself as much, because otherwise he would not have made it through all those long nights.   
It saddened him, though, as well. No God would have brought back one of his own for a purpose of meager consequence. He knew an old fire was being rekindled, he knew that an old generation was being reborn. He could feel the changes happening.   
It was unfortunate that the Guns had risen to so much power, and sad. The world was a better place without them, but not without their individuals, he had to believe that as well. The evils of men only manifested when they manipulated each other, as was the way of the Gung-Ho-Guns.  
"Father, I've returned." Cayle's voice jarred him from his thoughts. He turned, facing the silouette of his "son", outlined by the bright sunlight of Gunsmoke's double suns. He smiled, Cayle was always a welcome sight. But it was not Cayle that made him swallow hard, not Cayle that brought tears to his eyes. Behind the boy came one of Vash's oldest friends, and the Red Man stood to greet him.  
It must have been an unspoken pact between friends, because Cayle had never seen his "Father" act this way. The two men took two steps toward each other and engaged a fierce embrace. Both couldnt manage words, not now. These men were kindred spirits, opposite brothers in the same cause, they had been allies in battle, each the other's shadow; but most of all, they were friends.  
After long moments the two seperated. Vash found his voice first.   
"Its been too long, my friend," His voice was barely a whisper, but it was there, as he looked upon Nick's haggard features. His friend had seen better days.   
"Too long," Nick echoed. For a moment they both wanted to speak, but neither could, they dissolved into a bit of laughter, and Vash motioned back to the table. Cayle only shook his head and went back outside.   
"You are a sight for old eyes, Priest. I never thought I'd see you again," Vash couldnt deny the smile that was plastered on his face.  
"I didnt think I'd see me again either, let alone you. You look well, though, for a man your age." Nick chuckled. He had learned about Vash, knew what he was, knew about his life. The years had only just caught up with him, tinting the yellow around his ears to grey, but that was all. Nick surveyed the room as he sat. It was small and quaint, typical Vash. The fireplace was freshly tended, and a door on the left wall lead undoubtedly into the bedroom. The kitchen was spotless, and the sparse furniture was pristine. The only real thing of note were the two guns crossed on the far wall; and the hanging cross beneath them.  
"Its yours, you know," Vash was looking at his folded hands on the table. "And I know you need it back." He shook his head and sat back, a touch of his old innocence gleaming in his emerald eyes. "Funny how things change with time."  
"Nothing has changed, Stampede," Wolfwood retorted. "Evil still runs rampant, men are still blinded by greed, what has changed?" His tone was pleading. Something had to be different.  
"You," Something in Vash's eyes forestalled immediate question. "You have not been brough here to entertain me, or to lead a meandering existance. You are here for them. You know that, I know that." Vash's quiet chuckle mingled with a sigh and a near-sob. "I thought I had done it, for a while. I thought I had managed to keep the balance of peace and pacifism with only so much violence." He clenched and unclenched his fists. "Knives died shortly after," they both knew what "after" was. "Priest, it is your responsibility now. The burden of this world is yours. Cayle is like me," Vash continued. "I have taught him for eighty two years. Taught him the ways of peace, and love. It was all for naught, though, until you showed up again."   
"Wait, Vash, I just, I dont know what I am suppose to -" Nick stammered, but Vash cut him off.  
"I do. I've always known. You posess something within you that is not suppose to exist in a world of godless men. You will be the one who brings hope to this place." He shook his head again. "You, and the Punisher..."  
  
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Let me know what you think... 


	12. Parting Sorrows

Author Note: Again with the hiatus. Jeez. I'm unreliable as hell. Anyway, I just thought I'd tag on another chapter. I thought I kind of ran this into the ground, but I could very well be wrong. R&R if you like, and if I'm encouraged enough, I may keep it up. Thanks a ton!  
  
Disclaimer: We all know the drill here..refer to chapter one.  
  
Sunlight filtered over dry, barren land leading right up to the desolate- seeming farmhouse. The desert gave way to nothing, stretching for dozens upon dozens of miles in every direction. In an odd way, it was serene. If one could get past the scorching heat, sandstorms, and severe dehydration, it wasn't a bad place to be when one's quest was solitude. The day started like any other. The morning was eerily quiet, and wind whipped low across open expanses, digging troughs in the earth that made it look like the scales of some giant reptilian thing. The eyes of such a beast crept over the horizon, albeit slowly. Gunsmoke's twin suns rose, mercilessly chasing away whatever moderate temperatures lingered from the night before. Shadows were chased away, banished for however long the day lasted. And even the days seemed to get longer every now and then. It was one of those days.  
  
The dry serenity was broken by the sound of gunfire.  
  
Nicholas, Vash, and Cayle had been up since long before daylight, all talking, laughing, and enjoying their time. Now though, it was as if something had weaved its way inside their heads and found the doorway to seriousness. It was all about business now. Vash had Cayle setting up targets for the Priest, so he could get back in the swing of the Punisher. Nick blasted each target into nothingness, each time hiding a grin that threatened to break the somber attitude of the trio. Wolfwood was a born gunfighter, and each time he squeezed the trigger, he could always count on the rush of adrenaline that followed soon after.  
  
It was that part of him that he hated the most. He shouldn't like gunfighting, or violence. But he did. Maybe that's what made him the man for the job. A peacelover pacifist couldn't do away with the scum that plague Gunsmoke that had branded themselves the Gung-Ho Guns. But, Nick reminded himself, an animal couldn't do it either. He always thought back to the accident when he had been captured by the Guns not too long back. He vowed that would never happen again.  
  
"Go," His voice found itself sliding through gritted teeth, but Cayle got the message. The boy slung a paint can high into the air, away from the sunrise. It hadn't been out of his hand a half of a second when three rounds tore into it, sending it into an awkward tumble.  
  
"You know, Priest, I'm starting to wonder if your trying to scare us, or just shoot us," That from Vash. The Red Man stood behind them, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like a child.  
  
"Right," Nick's somber attitude finally cracked, and he chuckled just a bit. It didn't last. "I don't know if I can manage this, Stampede."  
  
"You can, and you will. We both know my way doesn't work. I got innocents killed, hurt, and-" Nick cut him off.  
  
"That's enough, you know that's not true, just like the rest of us." Vash had no response. They began to walk back toward the house, in silence, and Vash stopped, Cayle instinctively stopping as well. Nick took a few steps, stopped, and turned.  
  
"Nick, you know you have to go." They were words Vash wish he didn't have to say. But the tired Priest only nodded, looked at his feet, and nodded again. He started toward the house, alone, and the two men in red watched him go.  
  
"Cayle," Vash turned to his son. "You know I created you from Knives." The comment came so far out of left field that Cayle stuttered for a moment. It had been a long time since they had talked about his origins. "Yes, father. Knives died, and you used a part of you pair with what was left of him, and created me." The words were regurgitated nearly verbatim from what Vas had told the boy.  
  
"That's right," Vash looked to watch Nick dissapear inside the house. "I wanted to be sure that you could do what you had to. I knew, somehow I knew that this day would come." The faraway look in Vash's eyes told the boy that his father perhaps really had known. It was a look of youthfulness that looked out of place these days on a face that hadn't smiled in a long time. Not before yesterday. "I want you to go with him, but don't tell him. Follow him, help him if he needs it. He is an extraordinary man, but he is one man. He will need your eyes."  
  
"Father, I couldn't just leave you here to - " Vash held up a hand.  
  
"I will be fine. I'm in no danger here. No more arguments. Go inside through the back door and get some things together. You leave tonight." Cayle was afraid. He'd never been out wandering before, let alone with a mission. He searched his father's face for something, anything that he could use, he had to change his father's mind. But no, the face looking back at him was resolute, determined.  
  
The second member of the crowd departed without saying a word.  
  
Vash stood for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, staring at the suns. Eventually he reached into one of his coat pockets and donned a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses. He smiled as memories raced through his head like scattered sunbeams. The memories threatened to overwhelm him in a rush of nostalgia, but they were quelled when Nick emerged from the house. He truly looked like divine intervention made manifest.  
  
He had slipped on a clean suit, sunglasses, and all the other trimmings. Perhaps most imposing, though, were the two man-sized crosses he had slung over his shoulders. To anyone who had never heard of the legends, he was a crazed bible-thumper taking things too seriously. To those in the know, he was a holy demon.  
  
Nick stopped in front of his old friend. "Its going to be a long walk." He half-smiled. He hated goodbyes. Especially this one, with the only person left that he knew.  
  
"Not as long as you think." Vash nodded past Wolfwood, and the Priest turned to look, briefly forgetting that he was lugging the two crosses, and hitting Vash squarely in the head with one. The ensuing *thud* was not enough to make the Priest pull his eyes away from the sight before him. Cayle was wheeling around a motorcycle. A blue one.  
  
"Where did you..?" Nick turned, but Vash was still sprawled on the ground. After a moment of hauling him to his feet and re-arranging the crosses, Nick asked his question again. "Where did you get that?"  
  
"You left it in the city," Vash was nursing a large lump on the side of his temple that seemed to throb incessantly.  
  
Nick grinned and met Cayle half-way. It seemed so automatic the way he strapped the crosses to the side and straddled the bike. A hells-angel and grinning like the devil. Even Vash smiled. Nick looked out over the horizon and sighed, slipping off the bike and walking back to where Cayle had now joined his father.  
  
"I guess this is goodbye, again." Nick sniffed and slid his hands into his jacket pockets.  
  
"It is, but only for a while. I expect you to be back here when your," Vash thought a moment, "quest is over. Or when you need a break." He cracked a smile that was contagious. They embraced again and separated.  
  
"Cayle, it was a pleasure. Thanks for finding me," Cayle smiled and he and the Priest shook hands. Nick looked at them both once more and turned, before his emotions betrayed him. Starting now, he didn't have the luxury of tender emotions. He got two steps before Vash stopped him.  
  
"Nick." The Priest turned just in time to reflexively catch a large red coat being thrown at him. Nick looked down at the garment, confused. "For luck," Vash smiled hugely and gave him a thumbs up.  
  
Confidence rushed into the Priest like a firestorm. He grinned and slung the coat around his shoulders, leaving it hanging open on his chest. After a moment of checking his equipment, saddlebags, and gas, Nick swept onto the bike, kicked up the stand, and sped off toward the still-rising suns. Wind whipped through his hair and sand stung his face. But he didn't care, and he didn't look back.  
  
"You leave tonight," Vash reiterated, and Cayle only nodded. They watched as the Priest sped off, leaving a snakelike trail of dust in his wake. Vash shook his head and chuckled under his breath. After a few more moments, the trail had faded and Wolfwood was nothing but a spec on the horizon. Cayle moved off to get his things together and give his father a moment alone.  
  
Vash thought about many things in those moments, but he couldn't think of anything that mattered more than his last, unspoken words to the Priest, "Good luck." 


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